To the Rescue!
by MLaw
Summary: In old Western movies the cavalry came to the rescue and sometimes in real life it still does even for an U.N.C.L.E. agent.  A pre-saga vignette, just for fun.


"**To the Rescue!"**

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Napoleon Solo knelt on the ground, covered in dirt and muck and hissed his discomfort as he felt the burning sting from a of cactus spine stuck into his calf.

Cal Washburn, his adversary du jour, pushed his boot against the middle of his back, sending the U.N.C.L.E. agent forward onto his face. Then pressing his boot onto the side of Napoleon's head, he dangled his razor sharp spur dangerously close the the man's handsome chin.

"Say your prayers you Yankee, y'all are about to meet your maker." The man spoke with a heavy Texas drawl.

"Couldn't we talk this over?" Napoleon asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Not a chance Solo, you've been a thorn in Thrush's side for too long. If you're a prayin' man, then I suggest you do it right quick."

Napoleon heard the sound of a revolver being cocked and squeezed his eyes shut tight, figuring this was finally it. The Solo luck had run out at last.

There was a sudden commotion and Washburn abruptly removed his boot from the agent's face, and Napoleon opened one eye just to see what was happening that had granted him a momentary reprieve.

Shots echoed in the air from a Winchester repeating rifle, hitting one of the two Thrushmen, killing him instantly and sending their horses scattering in a panic.

A lone mounted figure was riding towards them like a mad man, his horse at full gallop with his rifle in one hand and the reins in the other.

Washburn dropped to his knee, getting off several shots from his Remington, but what appeared to be a lunatic of an equestrian avoided being hit by diving to one side of the horse with the ease of a trick rider.

Then one more shot rang out as the horseman got off a shot while hanging from the side of his saddle, hitting Washburn and sending him tumbling back into the sage brush.

The pale rider reined the winded Appaloosa to a quick stop and dismounted in one fluid motion, pausing to give the beast a reassuring pat on the neck before walking over to Washburn, making sure that he was dead, then helped himself to the man's pistol.

"Hmmm a Colt revolver?" He thought as he nodded, weighing the balance of the pearl handled pistol in his hand, then he tucked it into his belt. "_This_ will make a nice souvenir."

Then he turned to the dude dressed in his fancy suit, laying on his stomach with his hands tied behind his back; standing over the man with the late afternoon sun shining at his back.

Solo could see a pair of black leather Western-style boots clearly enough, but the rest of the man was silhouetted by the sun as he cast a tall shadow.

Then as Napoleon's eyes adjusted to the glare, he could make out the figure of a man with a straw cowboy hat on his head wearing jeans, and a dark green plaid shirt, but the light still blinded him from a clear view of his deliverer's face.

"Thanks Mister. I appreciate your coming to my rescue. Now if you could cut me loose...I'd be much obliged," Napoleon said, slipping into the vernacular just to be on the safe side, and knowing he looked out of place dressed in his designer Italian suit.

"_Pozhaluista_you are welcome."_

"Illya?"

"That is my name...pardner." the Russian quipped as he knelt, cutting the bindings from the American's wrists, then offering him a hand up.

"Where the hell did you learn to ride like that?" Napoleon asked as tried dusting the dirt from his suit, though his efforts seemed futile.

"Napoleon, do you not sometimes refer to me as a Cossack? And are the Cossacks not famed for their riding abilities?" He grinned, flicking his hat with his finger."You know I _always_ wanted to do that."

"Do what, ride like a Cossack?"

"Nooo, to ride in to the rescue like your American Cavalry."

"Tovarisch, you've been watching too many Westerns."

"What, you do not like your John Wayne?"

"Oh I like the Duke well enough, but I'm more of a Clark Gable...Rhett Butler man myself.

"_Gone With the Wind _was not a Western, it was a drama based on you Civil War." Illya corrected him, eliciting a sneer from his partner.

"Well shame there's no damsel in distress for you to kiss tovarisch, the good guy usually gets the girl in Westerns you know."

"Yes, but I imagine you being a _good guy_ yourself, as usual have gotten to her first. So all I have is _you_ and I am most certainly _not_ kissing you."

"There's always the horse?" Solo smiled.

Illya snorted his reply as he whistled for the horse, calling it to his side. The Appaloosa was their only means of transportation as the other horses had completely disappeared from view.

The Russian pulled a lump of sugar from his pocket, feeding it to the beast, then lifted himself into the saddle. He offered his partner a hand up to sit behind him, then began to softly hum _The Gary Owen._ Together he and Napoleon rode off into the sunset.

"Owww," Solo complained, "Heeey, this is not _that_ comfortable?"

Illya hollerd "Yah!" urging the horse to a gallop as he laughed wickedly.


End file.
